Thoughts on book publishing, editing, contemporary poetry, dementia, administrative memos, and teaching by the editor of Tinfish Press.

Friday, June 10, 2016

Simone Weil 41

Life is an ersatz
form of salvation. The dean
responded to the mother of a distressed student as if he were
answering a complaint about pot-holes. If only he'd put the last
paragraph first; if only his grammar were better; if only he'd
avoided the verb “to impact.” Would his prose be clear as the
edge of a bubble my daughter blows? With a rainbow smudge, as if
aesthetics compensated for
cruelty?
My coffee comes of acorns, but I taste Columbian. My flour tastes of
soy, but that's my personal pronoun. I'm
grateful for what tricks me to attention. The gash of purple
flower-light against the Ko'olau, the fading coos of doves in fugue
with a
shama thrush--these
are a true imagining. I
cannot pare my senses down to none. A candlestick found
in the garden means someone
paid attention. Detectives
always share the guilt.